Shatterthrone
by Rockfalcon
Summary: Westeros is populated by heroes and monsters from a supernatural universe. Enjoy. Not much besides swearing for now.
1. PROLOGUE

The waterfall flowed gently into a small pool that fed an ice-cold creek deep in the forest. Kaija seated herself on a rock next to it and planted her face in her hands.

She wasn't sure what to think of the turmoil of her country. A new regime? She could support them, but they seemed so… fiery. The family- the Helians- were always a powerful family, but until now they had kept their ambitions strictly confined to the world of business. Conquest was not their area, until now.

How long had they been planning this? The new king, Crowley Helian, had murdered the steward and taken over the castle. It wasn't like this was the first uprising that the realm had faced- Helian was overthrowing a house that had destroyed the previous regime thousands of years ago and ruled since, but the city still remembered the violent years of war. The First Kings had put up a glorious fight.

Kaija toyed with a loose thread on her cloak. Her village- and the smallfolk that inhabited it with her- was in the territory of one of the Helians' bannermen. She frowned unhappily. Did this mean she had to support them now? But she didn't like them. She preferred the real kings and queens, they were so kind, if a little distant… and almost magical, with their birds…

Even if it were a bit silly, Kaija had always entertained the idea of traveling north to the upper part of the continent and serving the royal court, perhaps even catching the eye of one of the princes… there were many, and she was a comely girl, even she knew it.

Something rustled in the bushes. Kaija glanced over, but saw nothing. It was probably a wild animal- there were plenty of those, squirrels and birds and deer and even wolves around, though the wolves were a lot less welcome near the villages. They hunted the livestock sometimes.

If it were wolves now, Kaija could be in trouble. Wolves typically weren't aggressive, unless she had accidentally strayed onto their territory. She had visited this waterfall before, though.

No further sounds echoed out of the undergrowth. The peasant girl relaxed and laid back on the rocks, cushioned by the soft moss growing in the mist from the tiny waterfall.

At some point, she fell asleep in the dappled sunlight. She was escaping her chores for today, they were supposed to fall to her older brother anyway but he always made her do them for him. Even now, escaping would cost her later- he would beat her out of sight of her mother and father, but for now it was worth it. They would force him to work for once.

Thinking of her brother made her shiver slightly. She drew her worn and threadbare cloak around her more tightly. It wasn't even a real cloak, not really, it was just a sort of cloak-like sheet of roughspun fabric. But her mother had made it for her oldest sister, and it had been handed down. She knew that when she outgrew it she had to pass it to her next- younger sister, a time she dreaded, even though the cloak swung above her ankles when she walked now.

The sun passed overhead and shimmered on the water. The waterfall tumbled obliviously onwards, the light turning falling droplets to fine diamonds for a split second before they passed into shadow and splashed into the pool.

When Kaija awoke, it was much later than she had planned to be out for. The sun was hidden by the trees as it sank towards the west. Her eyes widened as she judged the time.

"Oh, oh no, oh," Kaija muttered, and gathered herself up sleepily. A rock caught her cloak, and she tugged it hard and was rewarded with a tiny ripping sound as a part tore off. She gasped unhappily and examined the hem- there was a section missing now. Her mother would not be pleased- but she'd be even less pleased that Kaija had disappeared. Yes, it wasn't her day to do the majority of the farm work, but she still had tasks that were unfulfilled while she was sleeping.

She hurried back through the trees in the direction of the farms around her village. The air was heavy and warm, heralding a storm in the near future. Kaija glanced upwards and bit her lip- the sun was quickly becoming hidden by clouds that were gathering, turning the sun-spattered sky to gloom.

Nearing her village, she smelled smoke- but not woodsmoke, it was acrid smoke from burning more than just wood. Something was very wrong. She slowed her pace and took the last turn in the path cautiously.

The sign marking the entrance to the town- "Falderton"- was gone, replaced by ash. The town was a ruin.

Houses were half-burned, black smoke rising from their husks. There were still some fires raging, but they were dying out with lack of material to consume. The ground was churned up, there were tools lying around…

And the townspeople were all around her. Some of them had been ripped into pieces; others were simply dead, butchered like cattle. There were many who had missing flesh- it seemed they had been attacked by a pack of animals, like wolves, but it couldn't be wolves, wolves weren't this strong and wolves also didn't light fires. Bandits? Bandits wouldn't mutilate the bodies, not like this… they would destroy them, yes, but not rip them apart with claws.

Kaija felt her stomach turn after seeing the first few and vomited on the side of the road. The air smelled only of smoke- the deaths were recent. Blood had soaked into the dusty dirt roads, making a thick dark brown mud. Kaija glanced down and saw that when the mud smeared on her feet, she could see that it was really reddish. It made her want to be sick again, but she made herself keep walking. _Where are Mother and Father? What about Aaron? Where is he, I made him stay here, he would have been out of the village, where is he…?_

She reached her house and was relieved to find it whole, but the momentary hope faded when she saw that the door was hanging off its hinges. She crept through the door and found the furniture scattered around the room, pottery shattered on the floor. There was no sign of her family members.

"Aaron?" She hesitated. "Mella? Chelly, where are you?" She looked further. "Mother? Father?"

No response. Kaija swallowed.

Her father was found soon enough. In the next room, he lay slumped in a chair, eyes staring up at the ceiling as his head dangled unnaturally far back. His throat was nothing but a red ruin, clawed and destroyed, and only his spine was keeping him together. Kaija backed away, shaking. Her father was so strong, surely he could have fought whatever had done this! Even bandits. Her father was a- used to be a smith, with enough power in his muscles to lift an anvil and throw it. Nothing could overpower him…!

She hurried out of the house, to the forge in front. It was a stone circle built out of the ground and filled with coals, with a makeshift bellows feeding into it, and a trough for cooling his creations. There were hammers on the wall, and various tools that he had made, plow blades and rakes and shovels. His tongs were lying on the ground. The coals looked strange, nearly dead, but…

Kaija leaned closer. There was a strange acrid scent rising from them, and against her better judgement she picked up a pair of long tongs and started to stir around in the chunks of burned wood. The tongs bumped against something, and she cleared the coals away and uncovered a hammer. Stirring around more revealed the curled and burnt form of her youngest sister.

Kaija stumbled backwards and tripped over something lying on the ground. She tumbled to the ground and gasped for breath, eyes stinging. Smoke clogged her airways and she coughed violently. When she swept her cloak out of the way, she saw that it was a pale, fleshy arm, slightly swollen and bloodless. There was a silver bracelet with blue stones around the wrist. _Mother's bracelet,_ she thought in terror, and scrambled backwards away from it. Her foot grazed the flesh and found it still slightly warm.

Something shifted in the forge behind her. Kaija whipped her head around, panting in panic, and searched the shadows for a threat.

She should not have turned around.

Her head continued to think, fleeting thoughts of fear and pain, for a full ten seconds after it left her body. The creature that killed her snarled in pleasure, but did nothing more than sniff at the body as the blood seeped through the cloak and pooled on the floor.

Westeros was in turmoil from its clashing kings, but a far greater threat was arising.


	2. 1, RICKARD:

The duck was cold.

Lord Rickard stared distastefully down at the plate. The servants of late had been ignorant and lazy, and he would have to replace them soon if they didn't start learning how to work properly.

"M'lord?" The serving girl who was standing by tentatively leaned closer. "Is there a… a problem, m'lord?"

"Yes," Lord Rickard said curtly. "This isn't even warm. It was just brought out of the kitchens and you cannot seem to keep it above the temperature of ice."

The serving girl quailed at that, and Lord Rickard sighed. "I'm not going to punish you. Who cooked this?"

"S-Symon Hender, m'lord," she said, voice trembling. "He w-was the cook for tonight."

"Well, kindly tell Symond Hender that he'll be needing a new job as of tonight." Lord Rickard sighed. "I may as well eat this."

The serving girl curtsied, bowing her head, and scuttled away. The vast stone halls here were damp-feeling and you could hear the sound of the sea echoing through the hallways.

House Levithan had always owned the Iron Islands. But they hadn't been ruled with an iron fist until Lord Rickard had returned them to the old ways. The last proper lord of the Islands had ruled over a thousand years ago, and they had been complacent ever since. No longer, Rickard had decided when his father died and he ascended the Seastone Chair. No longer.

Footsteps sounded, and Lord Rickard glanced up as his younger sibling hurried into the room. "Ah," he said, raising one eyebrow. "Kind of you to join me, Roman."

Roman glared at him. "Kind of you to summon me."

The corner of Rickard's mouth twitched. "I rang the bells," he said innocently. "It is no fault of mine if you had your ears stuffed full of cotton skirts."

Roman flushed slightly. He drew himself up taller and strode up the hall to take his seat. Lord Rickard felt the air move as he passed. Fascinating, that he had managed to take on such a chilly attitude so quickly.

Roman was four years the younger of Lord Rickard, and the second son of three. The third had been killed two years before when his boat sank at sea. Lord Rickard did not particularly pity the lost brother; Doren had been weak, no true Levithan, only a stupid young child from a second wife. Their lord father had fallen from a tower and died before his third son has lost his life; everyone had mourned the tragedy, save for Rickard and Roman. In time Rickard became Lord Rickard, Roman became the next in succession, Doren became dead, and no one ever had to know how Lord Neron fell out of a tower he had lived in all his life.

As soon as the mourning period for Lord Neron was over, Lord Rickard had taken control and implemented some changes in the Iron Islands. He had confined Doren's lady mother to the Ten Towers on Harlaw and rid himself of her influence, then systematically picked out those who were willing to betray him and removed them from his service. Roman was his confident for now, his partner in the crimes he committed- rather, didn't commit, because no one could testify to them. Roman was invaluable resource- and an enormous weakness. Rickard found him more useful than dangerous, however. For now.

He brought his rule down upon the Iron Islands like a mailed gauntlet. He reformed them down to the households of smallfolk. The Islands that he governed would be as strong as the ones of old that fought and raided up and down the coast of Westeros.

"Who was it this time?" Lord Rickard slid his eyes over to glance at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Roman said nothing, only gestured to be served. The girl who had vanished earlier reappeared after a second and laid a dish in front of him- the same as Lord Rickard's, and just as cold by the look of it.

"This is cold," Roman said after a moment. The serving girl inched backwards, trying to look impassive. Her terror showed, however, and she flicked her eyes between the brothers fearfully.

"I'm aware of this," Lord Rickard sighed. "The cook needs… replacing."

"Again?"

Lord Rickard smiled. This was not a common sight, and thus it was frightening. His face was broad and open, his hair shorn short, but his eyes were narrow and sly. When he smiled, he pulled his lips back to reveal near-perfect teeth. His mouth moved, but the smile never touched his eyes. They remained cold as stone, as seawater. "We'll eat well from now on, Brother."

Roman raised an eyebrow and smirked.

At that moment, their semblance of a dinner was interrupted as an old man shuffled into the room. He was a maester, though most disregarded him, and he was only kept around for his skill with ravens. "My lord Rickard," he croaked, then coughed and revived his voice somewhat. "My Lord."

"What is it, Gaeren," Rickard said, sounding bored. The maester usually came with trivial news about Westeros that no one in the Iron Islands cared about.

"My lord, there has been an uprising in the south of Westeros."

"Tell me more."

Gaeren failed to hear the sarcasm. "Yes, my lord. House Helian has slain the prince living in King's Landing and instilled their own king in his place. Crowley Helian has proclaimed himself as King of Westeros in the south. The royal family must respond, and go to war. They will call upon you, my lord, as will the Helians."

Now this was interesting. "War, you say? Must I support one or the other?" His eyes glittered. The Iron Islands was not a part of Westeros, and couldn't be regarded as such. If the realm was torn between two royal houses, he could raise his own claim as King of the Iron Islands instead of merely Lord. He would answer to no one.

He liked the sound of that.

Gaeren caught the tone of his voice and was about to speak, but paused. "My lord… you cannot possibly be thinking of…?"

"Of course I'm not," Lord Rickard snorted derisively. "Don't be a fool. Gaeren."

The maester pursed his lips, but nodded. "As you say."

"Go. Say nothing as of yet, but I will keep this in mind."

Maester Gaeren bowed stiffly and left the hall. Lord Rickard sliced a piece of cold duck and ate it thoughtfully, staring down the stone walls to nothing.

"We could be kings," Roman said, the instant Gaeren couldn't hear them anymore. "That's what you're thinking, right?"

Lord Rickard sent him a sharp look. "Not so loudly, Roman," he sighed. "Unless you intend on blurting every plot and plan ever made within the Islands to the world at large, hold your tongue until I declare anything."

Roman, suitably chastised, lapsed into silence. Lord Rickard stared down at his meal, but it was improperly made and distasteful, and he couldn't bring himself to eat any more. Instead, he sat back in his chair- maybe a throne, perhaps, someday, maybe soon- and steepled his fingers. Roman glanced up at him every so often, and found him staring off into space, smiling disconcertingly.

That was two smiles in as many minutes. The Iron Islands were about to change.


	3. 2, DEAN:

"We have to do _something._"

Dean raised his head and glared at his irate brother. "I'm aware of this," he snapped. "Except I don't agree with it. If the crown wants to go ahead and displace Crowley, great, we'll support them. If they don't, it's none of our damn business. I'm not going to go try and plead one way or another."

"Dean, you know what the Helians have done over the years. The king sent Dad and you to investigate some of their crimes."

"Yeah, but do I look like the king to you? No. So it's not my decision." Dean turned, cloak swirling behind him, and paced the other direction across the floor. "I can't take action against them unless they're physically threatening my lands and borders. You should know that."

Samuel, commonly known as Sam, sighed. "They will do something, you know. The crown can't just sit there and watch Crowley parade around on the Iron Throne."

"Nobody really cares about the Iron Throne," Dean muttered. "Not since the royal court moved to Winterfell."

"That's not the point. It has significance from the past, from when the Dragonkings ruled. It was the throne the entire realm fought over time and time again until the crown moved."

"I know." Dean sighed. "But what do you want me to do about it? We're hundreds of miles away. We can't possibly attack them. We're farther north than Winterfell, for the gods' sakes!"

Sam shifted. "Okay, fine. But if you don't want to do anything, why did you call me here?" He spread his arms, frowning. Even though his lord father had opposed it, as had Dean, Sam had departed from Karhold three years earlier with every intention of training in Oldtown to be a maester. Dean had recalled him just recently, for reasons unknown, but he had mentioned Lord Jon and Sam had come.

"It's Dad," Dean growled. "He's missing."

Sam was unconcerned. "And…? Please don't tell me you dragged me out of the Citadel just to tell me our father is gone for a bit. You know he does this."

"No, Sam. He was out on a mission and he hasn't returned."

"What? To where?"

Dean shrugged.

Sam sighed. "Great. Again?"

"I didn't ask him to do it," snapped Dean. "He's out trying to track down that outlaw again."

"What, the guy… the guy who killed Mom?"

Dean nodded. "He said he found his tail and went to get it."

"We already know who it is, it's one of the Helian princes." Sam frowned. "But… won't that lead him straight to King's Landing?"

"Only if said prince is in King's Landing," Dean responded. He swept back and forth, thinking. "But I have no idea where he is."

"Yellow-eyes," Sam frowned and shook his head.

Dean rubbed his head. House Helian was rumored to be… not quite human. Their eyes were black as onyx, for the most part, though some of them had eyes that were ruby crimson, and still others had pale gray or, in the case of Yellow-eyes, irises the color of saffron. They still didn't know the Helian prince's name, as the house had refused to recognize that any such member of their family existed, but the night that Lady Maery had died, when Karhold was nearly set afire, they had seen his colors and his sigil. Sam didn't remember it- but Dean did. He remembered seeing a man clad in black and red, in a swirling cloak, fleeing down a hallway as Lord Jon chased him. The prince had turned around and his eyes had gleamed yellow in the firelight, along with the embroidery on his doublet. Torn, their father had given Sam- then only an infant of half a year- to Dean and forced him outside, and attempted to chase down the prince himself. He failed, and returned to douse the fire that by then had consumed several rooms in the upper floors of the west wing.

By then, it was far too late to save his lady wife. Lord Jon became a different man then, bitter and driven. He left his children to be cared for by the maester and the maids and each other, and took his men to try and hunt down the rogue prince. Sam didn't remember anything but the harrowed life they led while their father was away hunting down the prince. Most of the time, he failed to find any trace of Yellow-eyes, but did find a good many more common criminals. These he brought to justice, his own justice, or turned them over to the proper authorities should their crimes be larger than what a lord could handle.

However, he always returned within a month, or sent word. If he were simply missing, with no indication of his prey, and no word that he might be entering danger…. The Hunter Lord may have been captured by his enemies.

No, that was absurd.

"That doesn't matter," Dean said, turning around to face Sam. "We have to find him."

"Dean, I don't think it's much of a cause to worry about-"

"If he were going somewhere dangerous, he would have sent us word to warn us of the trouble!" Dean ran a hand through his hair. "You see my point?"

"Yes," Sam sighed. "Fine. We will send out a search-"

"No, we have to find him."

"What?"

"It has to be us. No one knows his tricks better than we."

"Better than you." Sam frowned slightly and turned his head to the side, pursing his lips. "I have not hunted with him for the last few years. I don't know what he'll do."

"Your fault," Dean snapped. "I'll send for someone to prepare horses for us."

"Right now?!"

"Yes, right now! We don't have a minute to waste." Dean swept out of the room, leaving Sam standing there in his robes looking blankly at the empty dais where the lord's seat stood.

He had brought Sam back for the specific purpose of trying to find their father. Lord Jon had left him in charge of Karhold, but with the split between the kings… Dean couldn't possibly take control of the hold himself. He needed his father back here to take control.

"Harul," he snapped, and a servant snapped to attention in the hallway. The boy fell into step beside Dean as he strode along.

"Yes, m'lord?"

"I'm no lord," Dean growled. "I need you to saddle two horses and raise five guards to accompany Samuel and I. We're going out to search for Lord Jon."

Harul blinked in surprise, but obeyed. "Yes, ser," he said, and vanished down a side passageway. Dean continued walking all the way to his quarters. His bags were already packed, as he had been ready to set out in search of his father before he had sent for Sam. He summoned another servant and had them carry the bags for him. "Come on."

As per his orders, the horses were waiting. His was a sleek black mare, with silvery hooves and a white mane and tail. Her forehead was marked with a white cross-mark, wider than it was tall. Dean patted her on the neck and wished he had thought to bring some sort of treat for her. The horsemaster kept her well, her coat shining and healthy. "Hello, Cheyel," he murmured with a smile. She was saddled and ready to ride, and nickered softly as she blew hot air into his face. Dean laughed.

Sam appeared somehow, wearing the sword belt that he had neglected to take with him to Oldtown. A simple sword rested on his left hip, while a long fighting dirk and a dagger adorned the right. In addition to these weapons, he had also changed out his maester's robes for more practical traveling clothes, a tunic and breeches, and collected a brown cloak from somewhere. They looked slightly strange, perhaps a bit overly bulky, but Dean paid it no mind.

The horsemaster, Nelson, led another black horse over. It looked nearly twin to Dean's, but it was male, and jet black instead of marked with white and white hair. Sam looked over the horse, then familiarized himself with it. "What's his name?" he asked, patting the gelding's nose carefully.

"Dodger," Nelson said.

"Hello, Dodger," Sam said, and took the horse's reins. He handed his bag to Harul, who was hovering behind the Winchesters, and Harul strapped it to the back of the saddle. On the sides of the saddle he tied a bedroll and blankets. The guards were carrying their tent along with their own materials.

Sam stepped up into the saddle. Dean hopped up onto his with no effort whatsoever and swept his cloak behind him. It was white and blue, with the Winchester sigil embroidered in their colors and silver- two crossed swords with a white circle behind them on a blue field.

The five men-at-arms that Dean had asked to accompany them mounted up as well. Sam urged Dodger forward, then put one hand in his mouth and whistled.

"What are you doing?" Dean frowned at his brother, but it became obvious a few seconds later. A large, shaggy wolflike dog bounded forwards from somewhere in the yard and circled the horse. It was white, but its fur was tipped brown, so it looked two colors at once. It had blue eyes.

"Luck," Sam said, smiling. The dog- wolf, really- nearly reached Dodger's shoulder.

"That's a huge dog," Dean stared at it incredulously.

"He's a wolf- he's partially direwolf," Sam informed his brother. "He was found in the wolfswood, and they sent him down to the Citadel to be studied. I took him."

"Uh… huh," Dean said. "Is that thing coming with us?"

"Yeah, he is."

Dean frowned. "Direwolves are hardly ever found south of the Wall…"

"Lucky for me, then," Sam said. Luck, hearing a variation on his name, let out a gruff bark. Sam grinned.

Dean stared at the wolf-dog, then shook his head and sighed. "If that thing barks while we're hiding I'm gonna kick it," he warned.

"He won't," Sam replied confidently. "I've trained him well."

"Right, okay."

Sam snapped his fingers and the canine immediately snapped to attention, abandoning looking around to stand next to his horse. He looked straight ahead, his paws half-buried in the watery mud that covered the horse yard. The snowmelt was rough on the flat, grassless ground.

"Head out," Dean said, and rode forwards. Sam followed at his side, and Luck tailed Dodger, while the five guards followed at a slight distance. When they exited the gate, two of the guards flanked them, two stayed behind, and one of them rode out in front.

Luck trotted along, casually avoiding the horses' hooves and the mud churned up by them. They moved at a trot, out into the woods surrounding Karhold.

"Do we actually know where we're going?" Sam said after a minute.

"Yeah," Dean said. "We do. Dad left us his notes." He reached into one saddlebag and pulled out a small leather book. "He's left a trail in here for us to follow."

"I don't think that was really his intention in the first place," Sam muttered, but Dean ignored it.

"We head west."


	4. 3, ABADDON:

The king smirked. "They haven't done anything, have they?"

Abaddon stayed silent. The messenger shook his head. "The kings in Winterfell do nothing to stop you," he said. "It's almost as if they want you to rule the south of Westeros."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "No such thing. I will not rule the south of Westeros."

"Your Grace?"

"I will rule all of Westeros." Crowley crossed his legs and idly leaned on one arm of the Throne.

"Y-yes, Your Grace," the messenger stuttered. "Of course."

Crowley smiled lazily. "Now. Go. I will have to think about exactly what I intend to do next."

The messenger bowed and departed hastily. Crowley watched him go silently, then huffed a laugh to himself. He turned his deep red eyes on Abaddon as she stood still at the side of the dais.

"Abaddon," he called, and she stepped forward. She looked resplendent in her new armor and cloak- The Kingsguard of Westeros dressed itself in pure white- but Crowley had taken a dislike to the color a while ago, and determined that his Kingsguard be outfitted in dark crimson, a color near to his eyes. Thus, Abaddon was clothed deep red armor, with a pure red cloak that hung from her shoulders to her ankles. The weight of it was fairly new- previously, she had simply worn the Helian cloak, black and red checkered.

Crowley joked that now the outfits of the Kingsguard wouldn't show blood when they killed something. White was so hard to keep clean, he sighed, but red hid so much….

"Yes, Your Grace," she said. Her hair was a bright orange, unusual for her family- but then again, Abaddon herself was unusual for her family. She was one of the first female knights. She had been chosen for the Kingsguard because she was an exceptional fighter, in addition to being beautiful.

Embroidered in the leather of her right gauntlet was her own personal symbol, a gift given to each member of the Kingsguard. Abaddon had chosen for herself a detached hand,

The other red knights of the Kingsguard were just as strong as Abaddon was. There was Ser Furtur, a tall pale knight with white hair whose symbol was a pale stag. Then there was Ser Marchias, a shorter knight with a sly smile and the short-cropped dark hair characteristic of their family, and his symbol was a dark winged wolf. There was Ser Ryam, who was tall with long dark hair that fell almost to his shoulders, and carried a crow on his gauntlet. Ser Vaal was another, a woman with pale skin and long dark hair and black eyes, who carried one of the strange Dornish sand-horses as her symbol. Ser Furcas, twin brother to Furtur, was also a red knight, and had chosen a black trident as his symbol. Ser Avney was the last, his eyes pale gray but his hair as black as night, and with a flame on his gauntlet.

Abaddon knew she was the inspiration to Vaal's appointment to the Kingsguard. Currently, she was the only one in the throne room with Crowley. The other Kingsguard members were either resting or on guard outside the doors.

After all, Crowley and House Helian had just rebelled against the royal family of Westeros. Surely something would be done- a footpad with a dagger, perhaps, or an envoy with a manticore hidden inside a wooden box, or someone with a vial sneaking into the kitchens. Crowley had taken a few crown supporters and were making them taste everything he and his Kingsguard ate, along with everything consumed by the other members of his house. No one could say he didn't care for his family.

Abaddon watched Crowley carefully. He seemed to be considering something.

"Would you be so kind as to tell me how many days it's been since I took the throne?" Crowley said.

"Twenty-three, Your Grace," Abaddon replied, knowing full well that Crowley knew exactly how long it had been.

"So do you think the news has reached Winterfell yet?"

"Undoubtedly, Your Grace." Abaddon stared straight ahead, one hand on her sword hilt. Upon her appointment to the Kingsguard, she had been presented with a new sword, Unmaker, a Valyrian steel blade with red ripples running through it. She was, after all, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Or was it Lady Commander? She didn't think it mattered.

"So why haven't they done anything?" Crowley muttered. "How have the minor lords reacted?"

"I don't know, Your Grace. Onyx would."

"Send for her."

Abaddon nodded, then turned and swept towards the door, her boots clicking on the cold stone floor. She opened the door and stepped out, then tapped Ser Furtur on the shoulder. He was standing guard at the main door.

"Send for Onyx," she told him, and ducked back into the throne room once Furtur had nodded and departed. Ser Furcas took his place at the doors almost instantly. Abaddon paid him no mind. It was probably Furtur that had left- it was hard to tell them apart without getting a glance at their symbols. She would have strangled them had they chosen the same thing.

Within a few minutes Onyx appeared, led by the pale twin who had fetched her. He took up his position on the opposite side of the door from his brother, and Abaddon led the informant in.

Onyx was a master of whispers, a queen of shadows. Her skin was nearly as dark as her eyes and hair were, and she dressed in black silk and dragonglass. Her feet were shod in black leather boots that made no sound as she walked.

"Onyx," Crowley said in a welcoming tone. "Hello."

"Hello, Your Grace," Onyx said. Her voice was smooth and low, sounding like satin felt.

"Tell me. What does Westeros think of their new king?"

Onyx regarded him expressionlessly. "There are rumors, Your Grace, from the Iron Islands. Some say that Lord Rickard means to claim them for himself and rise to the seat of King."

"Pah," Crowley rolled his eyes. "He won't do it."

Abaddon wasn't so sure. Lord Rickard was a strange cold man, and ambitious. If he proclaimed himself king, the Seastone Chair would be his throne on Pyke.

"From the north, some say that Lord Jon Winchester has vanished."

"Vanished?"

"Gone missing, Your Grace. His son sent for his maester brother, intending to search for him."

"So the Hunter Lord is missing. What else?" Crowley frowned.

Abaddon looked at him carefully. Technically speaking, in the laws of the crown they were defying, Crowley's ascension to the throne was treason. Abaddon knew that the Hunter Lord had a habit of hunting down criminals of all kinds and violently butchering them when he caught them. Perhaps he thought to bag himself a traitor to the crown and a usurper as well. She wrapped her mailed fingers around Unmaker's hilt.

If Lord Winchester thought to kill King Crowley, he would have to fight his way through the Red Guard first. He would have to fight his way past Abaddon.

And Abaddon did not lose.


	5. 4, RUBY:

Ruby swore loudly as her horse stepped on the side of her foot. "By the _gods_-"

The horse, a pale mare with a cornsilk-yellow mane and tail, stared at her impassively and snorted. Ruby glared at her mount. "If Tari had told me what a little _shit_ you are, Maja, I never would have taken you." She rubbed her foot unhappily, hoping nothing was broken. Of course nothing was broken, it was just a little pinch compared to a full stomp, but it still hurt.

Maja swished her tail back and forth as Ruby resumed the task of tying her bags onto the saddle. She sighed and tightened a strap viciously. Maja complained by trying to step on her again- Ruby only just managed to get her foot out of the way in time.

The temperamental horse had been a gift from Ruby's older sister, Tari. Tari had gotten her and immediately tried to give her away. Initially, Ruby had been thrilled by the present- but once she tried to handle the horse for a few days, she realized her sister's dislike of the mare was well-founded.

Still, she kept the horse. She had never really owned one before her, aside from a chestnut mare who had died a few weeks after being bought, so any horse was better than no horse at all.

Ruby belonged to a lesser branch of House Helian, which was now a royal house- no, THE royal house of Westeros. So she was a cousin to the king.

Clever. More like distant cousin, really. She still had enough Helian to bear the name, and to have smooth dark hair and black eyes. It was slightly disappointing, however… red was so much more striking, and it would have done her name a little bit of justice.

Whatever. This didn't even matter. Right now, the king's informer- Onyx- had reported that the Winchesters were striking out to find their missing father, the Hunter Lord, who was probably headed for Kings Landing to kill Crowley. There was no greater criminal than a false king, right?

Especially a false king who had killed the ruling prince in King's Landing. Crowley had slashed the prince's throat right on the Iron Throne. He was carrying no weapons, and used the Throne itself as his tool.

So, she was supposed to find the Winchesters and help them find their stupid father and stop him. So she had to befriend them.

This was ridiculous. It was espionage that would never fly- they would see right through her in an instant. Plus, why would the Winchesters have any cause to trust a Helian? In Ruby's eyes, there was one way this could go, and it wouldn't involve the brothers letting her tag along.

Maja was saddled and everything was packed, though, and she couldn't disobey an order from the king. So, leaving was the only option now.

Ruby stepped up into the saddle and seated herself, then rode Maja at a canter out of the Red Keep and down through the center of the city. She turned at Cobbler's Square and doubled back, so she could pick her way through the city and leave via the Old Gate. Once out, she turned north and began to make her way up the Kingsroad.

The Kingsroad was a dangerous path, she knew. So she carried a sword- well, it was sort of a sword. It was an absurdly short sword, shaped oddly. It was a silver steel blade, but it had been broken, and one entire side of it was jagged, almost serrated. Its handle was carved from wood. She wasn't quite sure where it had come from, but she had found it in the armory a few days ago and liked it. The blade was etched with some symbols that she couldn't read. Her hand felt right on the hilt, and she had practiced with it for a while the day before. True, she hadn't been formally trained in swordplay, being a girl, but that didn't stop her from squeezing occasional lessons out of one of the lesser knights in the Red Keep.

Abaddon was her inspiration. Female knights were unheard of- women weren't made for fighting, she had been told, women were made for childbirth and housekeeping and comfort.

But Abaddon…

Anyone who told Abaddon she couldn't be a knight would change their mind in the next few minutes, either because they were told by their loved ones to change their opinion or because they mysteriously became mortally wounded. Nobody trifled with Abaddon without being punished, though in the streets there was plenty of degrading talk about her.

There was no way in the world that Ruby would ever have the mastery of a sword that Abaddon possessed, but that was alright- Ruby chose to hone other skills, more subtle ones. Onyx was her other role model- the mistress of whispers, trading silver for a morsel of information, trading gold for a life. Helians were not averse to assassination.

With difficulty, Ruby pulled her mind back to the task at hand: Finding the Winchester sons before they found the Hunter Lord and realized that going off to kill Crowley would land them a lot of credit with the royal house.

The non-usurping royal house.

They would probably search the forest around Karhold first, if they didn't assume their father was headed for Kings Landing. From what she had heard, they were rather dim, so that was an option. Even if they were headed southward on the Hunter Lord's trail, she would meet them coming the opposite way.

So, basically, she just had to ride for Karhold.

Wow, that wasn't going to take long AT ALL. Ruby sighed, wondering exactly how many days it would take her to get there. Probably a two fortnights or longer. She was one lady on a horse, and Karhold was up almost near the Wall. She had never been that far north, and all she knew is that the Wall was a stronghold of thieves and cutthroats and criminals from the dungeons of Westeros, mixed with good honorable men who defended them from the wildlings.

More criminals than actual Watchmen, she had been told. It was a miracle that the Hunter Lord hadn't already swept through their ranks and thinned them out, but that was probably illegal.

Ruby patted her pocket, where she had a map hidden. It was going to be a long ride, today, and it was going to be a long time before she had anything else to do. She gripped Maja's reins in a firm hand and rode northwards.


	6. 5, CHARLIE:

To the southwest of Karhold, deep within the bogs of the Neck, the Kingsroad runs on the only known safe path directly past Moat Cailin. The castle stands proud and tall after being destroyed many years ago, but rebuilt by the hard work of generations of crannogmen, peasants, and noblemen from the House that now rules there. The Children's Tower was rebuilt, the Gatehouse Tower improved. It was impossible to correct the lean of the Drunkard's Tower; it was left as it had always been, leaning jauntily to one side. The walls were reconstructed, the keep built back up from the soggy ruins. The castle and the areas were now the property of, and home of, the Lunedor family.

They were actually cousins to the Winchesters, though their branch of the family had been given a lordship for 'deeds in battle' a time ago and they had split off. The two houses were very close, however, and often met together.

Sitting on the throne on the dais in the main hall was Charlene Lunedor. She was perched on the edge, clad in riding gear and a russet red velvet cloak.

"Charlie, please," her older brother groaned, as he entered and saw her once again perched in his chair. Charlie, as she was known informally, sighed and rose.

"What, can't I sit upon the throne and rule in my brother's stead when he is gone?"

"I was out of the room."

"Not the point." Charlie hopped down the steps, cloak swirling after her. "You were gone."

"It's not even a throne," Charles sighed. It was some cruel trick of the gods that had prompted their parents to name them Charlene and Charles. Perhaps they thought it amusing. Perhaps they hadn't realized Charlie would shorten her name.

"It is if you imagine it to be."

Charles rubbed his head. "That- That's not even- never mind." He passed by her and didn't even go up to the chair at the higher table, just sat down at one of the long empty tables in the hall and tossed down a few letters. "Maester Shirlen told me ravens have been flying-"

"Isn't that what they do?"

"Charlie, _please._ This is _serious._ The Helians have killed the Prince in Kings Landing."

Charlie stopped her twirling and sat down abruptly on the wooden bench across from Charles. "What?!"

"Crowley Helian has proclaimed himself King of Westeros," Charles said. He shook his head. "This wasn't recent, either… we have been left uninformed for too long."

"What will-"

"Winterfell hasn't moved," Charles snapped. He looked harrowed, and annoyed. "Nothing. They've done nothing."

"But surely…" Charlie trailed off, frowning. The royal family would have to act soon, they couldn't just let Crowley take over the south… oh, dear. If they did something, they might just sit in the north and wait for Crowley to take the war to them, and then…

Moat Cailin would become very important, as would the rest of the Neck. If Crowley managed to take control of the south of Westeros, ignoring Dorne for the time being, and tried to invade the north, the Neck would be the only thing stopping them. House Wyrman and House Lunedor, and nobody else.

Oh, dear.

Charlie pursed her lips and swallowed. "So what will we do?"

"Push the north?" Charles murmured. "I mean… the king does what he wants, and we can't stop him. But we can't hold the Neck with the forces we have now. Not even with full cooperation from Greywater Watch- which we will have- and all our forces here." He looked up at her. "We'll be smashed if we try to hold back a southern army."

"Depends on the size of the army," Charlie responded, moving around the table to glance at the letters. Charles rubbed his head unhappily. Charlie glanced at him. "You okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Charles lied confidently. Charlie frowned and moved away again.

"So… push Winterfell to act?" Charlie frowned. "How?"

Charles shook his head. "I don't know. Ravens, I suppose. We could try and send a rider, but I don't think they'd have much more information than the ravens could convey."

"Write to them, then."

"Chances are they'll choose to use the Neck as their line of defense. If Crowley can take control of the south, that is."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Charlie commented. "House Helian has a lot of power, and a lot of money…"

"It's money that's key," Charles said firmly. "If he can buy the southern Houses, he will. And we'll be done for."

"If Winterfell waits, they'll have to send their armies here… we can't house armies! We can't even feed them!" Charlie stood straight again, distraught.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." Charles stood. "We have other matters to attend to. I'll instruct Maester Shirlen to send our pleas to Winterfell. We can do no more than that."


	7. 6, KEVIN:

Moat Cailin was larger than he had imagined.

Kevin had delivered his message to the sibling lord and lady of the castle, and was granted a night's stay by Lady Charlene.

A servant- the one that had shown him in- led him to some spare but comfortable quarters. He thanked the servant, who had mysteriously also acquired the bags from Nighthawk and left them in the room.

The castle was, generally speaking, rather large and silent. There were only a few servants and the sibling lord and lady living here- they were the only siblings, as neither were married and thus had no children. It was murmured around that Charles was searching for a wife, but as of yet had not made any proposals.

They were young to be making their own arrangements in life, Charles twenty and Charlene being only nineteen, but their parents had both passed on, hence their elevated status. There were no other siblings.

Kevin sat on the bed. It was a faded brown blanket over a slightly lumpy straw mattress, good for a servant quarters.

He opened up his bag, empty now that there was no more messages to deliver. He had been singled out back at Winterfell, amongst the couriers who lodged there between message runs. One of the princes had found him and asked him, and him specifically, to carry this message to Moat Cailin as quickly as possible.

He was the fastest courier in Winterfell. Nighthawk, the filly of his mother's horse Nightingale, was the fastest horse in Winterfell, and Kevin knew how to avoid trouble. So of course he had accepted the mission (refusal wasn't an option but that wasn't the point) and set out immediately.

On the way down he had nearly run into some trouble just over the river crossing- a gang of bandits was in the area, and the forest was too thick to detour around. So he just sped at a full gallop down the Kingsroad and watched the outlaws in the trees watch him as he passed. It had been legitimately frightening, but evidently they didn't think he was worth enough to try robbing, because they let him be.

Kevin had been nervous about bandits forever. Nighthawk was a beautiful horse- she looked like a proper lord's horse, a highbred valuable horse. So to avoid confusion, he asked a favor from one of the servants at Winterfell with whom he was friendly and got them to embroider a crude pattern onto his black cloak. It was a cream-colored scroll with a black ribbon and a white seal- it labeled him a courier, a messenger, nobody of any importance really. Bandits knew that he had no money on him, and they couldn't ransom him, and most bandits were too dumb to realize that they could steal whatever information was on him and sell it to someone who wanted it.

In any case, even if they DID steal the information, it wasn't the real stuff. He would hand over an envelope with blank papers inside, because the real information was hidden in a pouch under the saddle flap until he neared his destination.

He was summoned to dinner and ate with the rest of the small staff of the castle a bit later, and after that, seeing nothing else to do, he slept.

When he woke the next morning, he packed everything of his back up and went out to the stables. The stableboy saw him and immediately brought out Nighthawk, saddling her up with a speed that rivaled Kevin's own ability. It was impressive.

Kevin smiled at him and took his horses' rein. "Hello," he said, running a hand over her face. She whinnied and blew into his hair.

Horses liked him. They always had and they always did and he wasn't sure why. Nighthawk liked him most of all, but other horses - even foul-tempered ones – would warm to him almost immediately.

He mounted his horse, thanked the stableboy, and rode her out of the yard and out of the castle.

Passing back through the town was nice, even in early morning, and not as stressful now that he didn't have to be somewhere desperately quickly. The smallfolk woke with the sun, and at this time were already bustling about their daily business. He passed a smith and a group of children, along with a begging brother and several food vendors.

He had not eaten, so he dismounted and bought an apple and a half loaf from a man with a few coppers. The man thanked him, and Kevin ate the apple as he led Nighthawk through the crowds to an area that was not as packed. He slipped the bread into his cloak pocket and gave Nighthawk the core of the apple to eat. She took it without complaint, ears swiveling around to absorb the noise of the marketplace.

When there were less people around, Kevin mounted up again and rode at a trot out of the village. The smallfolk had built a sprawling town around the castle, though they only built to the north- there were no houses or shops south of the keep.

The morning was clear and bright, and Kevin managed a good pace for the first half of it, until the clouds moved in and it began to drizzle. He pulled his cloak hood up and kept going. Nighthawk complained at the road, as the forming mud sucked at her hooves, but kept picking her way dutifully north.

Kevin slept uncomfortably that night, perched as he was in the crook of a tree branch to keep off the wet ground.

The second day, he rode past a few small towns and sought food there, and stayed at an inn. It was small, and there was hardly any other clients, but that didn't bother him.

The third and fourth nights went much the same.

The fifth night he spent tied up in his cloak at the base of a tree, hungry and soaking wet.

He rode to the river and was immediately ambushed by bandits. They surrounded him and threatened him and Nighthawk with drawn bows, and he had to dismount her.

One of the bandits took her away, much to Kevin's dismay, and then they hit him over the head and tied him up in the forest near their camp.

They were talking, around a fire, but Kevin couldn't hear what they were saying. There had to be a reason they hadn't just killed him, or beaten him bloody and left him by the side of the road. Maybe they knew he was a messenger of Winterfell and not just an ordinary courier? Perhaps they really did intend to ransom him?

That was ridiculous, they wouldn't get anything. Winterfell would never pay ransom for a courier. It was literally a rule every courier understood- you don't get ransom payment. If you're caught, you're done. Because if someone pays for one courier, every criminal and their uncle would start kidnapping couriers for the ransom.

Kevin felt for his dagger, but it was gone, removed from his belt. His hands were tied behind him.

This was wonderful.

The bandits eventually fed him. He wasn't allowed to use his hands, however, so one of the men roughly shoved a piece of bread in his mouth and left him to choke it down amongst the laughter.

This was the first time this had ever happened to him and it was honestly quite scary. But Winterfell would know, they would know, when he didn't return… but they wouldn't do anything. He knew he wouldn't get paid for and he knew they would never send someone out to claim him- even if they knew where he was

He was as good as dead.

A distressing thought, to say the least.


	8. 7, DEAN:

The search was not going well, and it had yielded nothing.

Dean stared at the river and resisted the urge to hurl his sword into the waters. They had crossed yesterday and were now about to cross again. No one that they spoke to had seen the Hunter Lord or heard any word of his whereabouts. He had effectively disappeared, and despite Dean's hopes about the notes Lord Jon had left, there was no clue there to his current location.

"Dammit!" Dean hissed, scooping up a river rock. He brought his arm back and threw it as far as he could. It splashed down into the water in the middle of the channel. Luck poked his nose amongst the reeds, searching for something to eat, probably. Sam was standing a bit back, petting his horse or something. Dean half-regretted calling him- he hadn't been very useful, except in the regard that he was better at talking to people and empathizing with them. So far they had done nothing but root out a common thief in one village, and it had been nearly a fortnight. Their five guards were mercifully silent, but Dean got the idea that they were annoyed.

"Dean, maybe we just-"

"We're looking everywhere, and he's nowhere. Where did he go?!" Dean turned around, searching Sam's face. "Huh?"

Sam shrugged. He patted Dodger's nose. "I don't know, I don't know him as well as you."

"But you do know him. You think the same way."

"What? I do no such-"

"Where would he go, Sam? Where would he go? Why?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know! That depends on what his lead is. Perhaps he uprooted a clue as to the location of Yellow-eyes. Perhaps he found some lesser enemy… or perhaps he went south." He pursed his lips. "For Crowley."

"He would never go to C-"

This time Sam interrupted. "No. To kill him."

Dean stopped, stared, and went, "huh."

Sam stepped up into the saddle and swung his leg over, seating himself on his horse. Dean turned, looking for Cheyel, and as he turned he saw a slight movement in the air and watched one of his guards fall from his horse with a strangled scream, blood appearing on his shoulder.

It took half a second for the event to be noticed and comprehended by everyone in the vicinity, and then there was the sound of ringing steel as Dean and every other person still capable of doing so drawing their sword. Luck barked, lowering his head and growling.

Another arrow sped by, narrowly missing Dean's head. He ducked, looked in the direction of his attacker, and darted sideways. Sam tugged gently on Dodger's reins and the horse reared, slashing at the air, and came down in a jump. He thundered forwards and met a man head-on as he slipped out of the trees, armed with a notched iron sword. The man yelped as Sam drew his own sword and slashed down at him, catching his shoulder. Luck leaped forwards, suddenly turning from a fuzzy wolfish dog into some kind of hellbeast as he pinned the man to the ground and ravaged his wrist.

Dean tried to grab for Cheyel, but at this point there were two or three men now amongst him and the guards. He drew his sword, turned, and met an attack. The bandit cut at him sideways, and Dean parried and counterattacked. The man, wearing nondescript gray and brown clothing, stepped back and nearly tripped on his own oversized cloak. Dean saw this advantage and drove him backwards, attacking viciously, until the man stumbled and fell down. Dean dealt him a vicious slash to the shoulder, at the base of his neck, and turned away. Another one attacked almost immediately.

This one was more skilled, Dean quickly learned, and out of the corner of his eye saw Sam pull Dodger around to cut down another one. Arrows flew, and one of the guards had a bow out and was shooting back. Sam covered him, but one of the archers was unwise enough to show himself and Sam nearly ran him through.

Dean parried again, sideways, and saw the man pull his sword away and sweep it upwards. Dean twisted the blade and forced it downwards, blocking the blow straight-on with a jarring clash. His right arm when slightly numb. The man was quick, too- he whipped his sword around again and tried for another cut, but Dean managed to block that as well.

He was holding his own quite well, and had started to score, slashing a cut across the man's forehead, when something caught him in the side and threw him. It felt like he had just been bludgeoned, and he hit the ground and rolled, sword falling from his hands.

There were rocks on the riverbank, and Dean found himself next to one. He struggled up, reaching for his fighting dirk, and then he saw that he had in fact been bludgeoned- there was a bandit carrying an enormous tree branch, a hulking man, and the swordsman he had been facing stepped forwards and brought the blade up. Dean flinched and raised one arm as the man brought the sword down with all the force he had-

Steel sang, and no blow fell. Dean opened his eyes, confused, and saw that someone had stopped the blow. The newcomer was a man, and that was all Dean could tell from the glimpse he got. The man was wearing a long white cloak that swirled in front of him, and in a few quick blows he drove the bandit attacker back. The bandit made a choking sound as the sword split his rusty mail like butter, and carved into his chest. He fell.

Then the man disappeared, darting off to the side. Dean watched as he took on one of the archers, then ducked just before another shot. The arrow whizzed over his head from behind. How had he seen it…?

The man pulled something out of his belt, turned, and flung his arm out. A tiny wink of light whizzed from his hand, and the archer made a choked gurgle and stopped firing.

There were a few cries, and the remaining bandits fled. Luck chased after them to the treeline, barking furiously, low gruff angry wolf sounds.

With the danger no longer imminent, the newcomer stopped, surveying his surroundings. Dean stared as he rose.

The man looked to be almost Dean's height, perhaps an inch or two shorter, with short, slightly curly black hair and clear eyes. For some reason, he seemed familiar. He looked down at his blade, which was now stained with blood, and let the tip drop to the ground. Then he looked over at Dean. "Are you alright?" His voice was low, rough but whispery, sonorous but quiet.

Dean noticed that, for some reason, this man was wearing plate armor, gilded white, but no helm. "Yes," he said warily. "Who are you?"

The man looked about to respond, but his head snapped up as a shadow circled overhead. A bird wheeled once, twice, and then swept in and backwinged to land on his outstretched arm. It was an eagle- a massive black eagle, far larger than any normal predatory bird.

Dean's breath caught. "My lord," he said, and went down on one knee. "Castiel Celestian."

"Please," Castiel sighed, looking faintly embarrassed. "You really don't-"

Sam appeared out of nowhere and knelt next to Dean. Castiel looked away.

Every member of the Celestian family had a bird. It was no ordinary bird- it was a predatory raptor or hawk, eagle, or owl, falcon or gyrfalcon of some kind. Whatever the species, it was larger than any normal bird had a right to be, and far more intelligent.

It also shared a mind with the Celestian member it belonged to.

Castiel's was an eagle, a pure black eagle. Even the skin and the beak were as black as night. Its eyes regarded them carefully. Dean realized that this is how Castiel had been able to dodge arrows- the bird could see them, and therefore Castiel could as well.

The smallfolk sometimes called them wargs, or skinchangers. They were, but they preferred the term 'bonds.'

"Do not be alarmed by my bondmate," Castiel said with a smile as Dean rose again. "Shade may look sinister, but I assure you he quite harmless."

"Er," went Dean, who had once seen a bondmate bird rip out someone's eyes. "Right."

Shade nibbled at Castiel's hair. The prince didn't seem to mind.

"I- why were you-" Dean couldn't seem to formulate a question.

"I'm escorting my sister south," Castiel said casually. He bent down- Shade shifted to keep his balance- and carefully ripped off part of a fallen outlaw's cloak. With it, he wiped blood off his sword blade. "Hence the armor. I'm more of an honor guard than anything, but Shade was overhead and said there was trouble further down the road. I came as quickly as I could."

"I- thanks," Dean stumbled over his words. "I… don't believe I would be standing here if not for you."

Sam glanced over at him, shocked. "What?"

"I, dropped my sword," Dean muttered. "I got clubbed."

"Are you alright?!"

"I'm fine." Dean rolled his eyes. "Perhaps bruised, but fine otherwise." He brushed off his sleeve.

Sam collected his dog-wolf. There was blood staining the fur around Luck's mouth, but other than that he was perfectly fine. Dean whistled, and found Cheyel hiding in the trees. When he led her back to Sam and picked up his sword, Castiel had called his own horse from somewhere- bay-and-black patterned gelding with a black mane and tail, outfitted in the colors and standards of House Celestian. Shade uttered a low chirping sound as Castiel mounted up. Dean cleaned off his sword and slid it back into the sheath. The three unwounded guards clustered around the two fallen, one of whom was dead, and the other dying. He had fallen from his horse, but the bandit had tried to finish him off.

Dean led Cheyel over, then crouched next to the dying man. "I'm sorry this happened," he said, taking the man's hand.

The guard made no response, as he had stopped living. Dean dropped his hand, stood, and mounted his horse. He turned her around and rode back over to Sam, who had remounted Dodger. Luck was standing next to the horse. Dodger seemed unbothered by the massive predator that stood next to him.

Dean heard hooves, and looked up. Further up the Kingsroad, from the north, a few horses appeared, and then a small party. In the center was a woman riding on a chestnut mare. Her hair was red, and sitting on her shoulder was an abnormally large red-tailed hawk, a broad band of black speckles strewn across its cream colored belly.

"Anael," Castiel called warmly.

"Castiel- what happened?!" She said, alarmed at the carnage. There were three dead bandits, two more in the trees, and two dead guards. The other bandits, wounded or not, had fled.

"These men were attacked," Castiel said smoothly, and Dean suddenly realized he had not supplied his name.

"I- Dean Winchester," he stammered suddenly. "Of House Winchester. This is my brother, Samuel. We, ah, we're looking for our father."

Castiel regarded them for a moment, then nodded. "The Hunter Lord."

"Yes."

"He passed by Winterfell not three days ago, headed south down the Kingsroad. We are going that way ourselves, as I have already told you. Perhaps you would like to accompany us?"


	9. 8, THE MAN IN THE GREY CLOAK:

Information flowed along silken whispered threads until it reached the man in the grey cloak. When it reached him he regarded it silently for a time.

This was his opportunity, at long last. This was this chance.

Perhaps he could finally reclaim what rightfully belonged to him.

He smiled.


	10. 9, SAM:

Sam hadn't even been looking when Castiel appeared from seemingly nowhere and saved his brother.

Sam hadn't even been aware that his brother was in danger. He had been riding Dodger, fighting a man on the ground with unsure strokes, wishing he had his weapon of choice- a Dothraki arakh, a curved blade, razor sharp. A sword was not as good, but his arakh was in his bag, and he didn't have time to fetch it.

When he turned again, a powerful man in white armor had been ruthlessly thrashing a bandit while Dean lay dazed on the ground next to a rock, staring at him. Dean's sword was lying nearby.

Sam disregarded the new man until he was sure they were no longer in danger. Luck had nearly bitten a man's wrist off, not that the bandit minded now- he was bleeding out on the ground, and unconscious already. A whistle called the wolf away from his quarry, to Sam's heels, and Sam dismounted Dodger and cautiously stepped towards the newcomer.

It was then he saw the bird sweep in and land on the prince's shoulder, and watched Dean kneel, that he found that Castiel was in fact present and had just fought for them.

Now the column, small as it was, rode along in silence. They had buried the outlaw's bodies- they weren't going to let them rot for the crows, they wouldn't stoop so low as that- and moved on.

Sam rode just ahead of Dean, next to Castiel. Dean rode alongside Annael, and both of the Winchesters were too awed by the Celestian royals treating them as equals to speak.

Eventually Sam glanced over at the prince and cleared his throat before saying, "Why are you going south?"

"Moat Cailin lies within the Neck. No army can pass through without consent from the castle. Should Crowley Helian choose to launch an attack on the north, Annael will see their armies from afar and call us to arms."

"How will..?"

Castiel shifted slightly; Shade, perched precariously on his shoulder, spread his wings suddenly for balance. "As you may know, Celestians have bondmates," he stated. "Annael will use Rust to watch over the Neck every day, when the crannogmen are not on guard. rust will be able to keep watch from dawn to dusk, but the crannogmen will take the night when Anael and Rust must sleep." He smiled. "Raphael wanted to accompany her, but… we cannot risk sending both female heirs to the throne down to the Neck. Should an army attack, they would be in severe danger, regardless of how quickly we could bring an army to their aid."

"I see," Sam said. "The h- er, Rust- will be able to see for a much longer distance than any human."

"Right." Castiel nodded. As he did so, Shade took leaned forwards and leaped up, downstroking hard. He soared upwards and rose swiftly into the blue sky.

Sam craned his head to watch the bird. "That's amazing," he said softly.

Castiel made no response.

Behind him, Sam heard Dean talking to Annael. They seemed to be having a lively conversation about something, but he couldn't tell what from this distance. Their words were unintelligible. He glanced back and saw Dean admiring Rust, whom Annael had transferred to the shoulder closer to him. The bird seemed to have taken a liking to Dean, and was considering hopping onto his hand.

Castiel hummed to himself, still looking ahead. "Interesting," he said. "Bondbirds don't usually… associate with other people. They allow themselves to be handled only by their bondmate. But your brother has charmed Rust into sitting on his arm."

Sam glanced back again and saw that this was true- Dean was holding Cheyel's reins in one hand, while the other was stretched out and supporting the massive hawk. It looked rather heavy, but Dean appeared to be holding it with no trouble. He stared for a few seconds, then turned back forward. "Impressive," he tried.

"Indeed," Castiel agreed. He looked sideways at Sam. "Lord Winchester said-"

"?" Sam stared at him. "You spoke to our father?"

Castiel blinked at him, confused, then got it and shook his head. "Ah. No, I was referring to Dean."

"Dean doesn't become Lord Winchester until our father dies," Sam said warily.

"Pardon me," Castiel said gracefully. He dipped his head. "Dean mentioned that you were searching for your father."

"Yes, we are. You said he passed by."

"He did."

"Did he leave any clues as to where he was going?"

"He may have, back at Winterfell, but I don't know." Castiel shook his head. "I didn't speak with him. Only Michael and Raphael did."

Sam frowned. "Dean's not going to like that," he said. "He'll want to talk to the king."

Castiel raised an eyebrow and half-smiled. "Good luck," he said sincerely.

"What?"

"The king doesn't talk to anyone unless it's extremely important," Castiel informed him. "Matters of life and death, or events that could change the country- or friends. Michael will see friends, but most of the time he runs Westeros from Winterfell. It's our job to involve ourselves with the people and inspire them to love House Celestian."

"They do," Sam replied. "I can think of few in the north who do not revere you."

Castiel raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Revere… Your, ah, your birds," Sam offered. "They are, hmmmm, the people are impressed by what they view as magic."

"It is magic," Castiel said matter-of-factly. "That much is well known."

"That makes it all the more fascinating. I studied as a maester- I know how the smallfolk think, how they interpret things. I was taught to be an advisor-" he stopped. "Well, I was being taught. But Dean sent for me, and I had to answer his summons."

"You left the Citadel at your brother's call?"

"Of course I did. He wouldn't have called me if it wasn't important." Sam smiled. "So I departed."

Castiel nodded. He didn't say anything.

Overhead, Shade uttered a high watery piping sound. Sam glanced up, identifying the bird, and frowned. "That's…. that's an eagle's call," he said hesitantly.

"Yes," Castiel affirmed.

"Ah, Shade is black. There are no species of eagles that are completely black."

"That's right."

"…?"

"Shade is a darkmorph," Castiel explained.

"A darkmorph…? What's that?"

"A reverse version of a palemorph." Palemorph animals had peculiarly lightened skin or fur or feathers, to the point where they were a creamy white- and their eyes were sometimes a dull pale red instead of normally colored. They were rare, and highly prized. Castiel said it like it were obvious. "Instead of white, they are black, and every aspect of them is darkened like pitch." He glanced upwards again. "They are abnormal, and much rarer than palemorph creatures. My family wanted to kill him when he hatched, as he bore no color other than that of the night and we are light, but I bonded with him and would not let them hurt him." He smiled, then laughed to himself.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Something funny?"

"No, nothing," Castiel replied.

Shade wheeled overhead, then soared back over the column. Sam glanced back in time to see Rust bite Dean's ear. The hunter's son yelped and jerked his arm up- Rust hopped off and flapped awkwardly back to Annael, who was laughing now.

Castiel smirked. "Perhaps he hasn't quite managed to charm Annael's bondmate after all."

Luck glanced back as well, and made an amused whining noise. Castiel looked down at the wolf. "You have a direwolf? I saw him before but I was not sure."

"He's a half-direwolf," Sam corrected. "He was found up north, by the Wall, and they sent him to Oldtown to be studied. None of the other trainees wanted to take care of him, and the maester teachers didn't want to burden themselves with a puppy, so… I took him. He really likes me now." He reached down and patted Luck's head- it wasn't hard, as the wolf literally reached Dodger's shoulder with his head.

"Direwolves are never found south of the Wall," Castiel murmured, echoing Dean's statement from before.

"I know. That's part of the reason they were so confused. If he were a full direwolf, though, he'd be much larger than this, and much fiercer. However… he's not been very fierce."

"Really."

Sam paused. "Except for today." He glanced down at Luck again. The wolf had washed himself off in the river, cleaning the blood from his face and chest, but there was still a faint hint of red around his muzzle. "That was unexpected, he's never done that before…"

"Obviously he was defensive of you," Castiel said. "You have done well."

"Thanks," Sam answered, not quite sure why Castiel was praising him. They continued onwards, lapsing again into silence while Dean spoke with Annael behind. The sun shimmered off the low clouds as they scudded across the blue.

Overhead, Shade wheeled in circles.


	11. 10, RICKARD:

Lord Rickard paced slowly back and forth in the library, musing silently over the books he had taken from the walls. He had sailed to Harlaw, to the Ten Towers, to use the library there.

Ancient warfare was well recorded in the books that no one read there, where servants battled to keep them from succumbing to the damp sea air. Lord Rickard was searching for something specific, something he knew from legend but wanted to read in fact.

His ancestors had ruled the oceans and rivers, from one end of the world to the other. None had dared challenge them, and their ships were fantastically large, three times the size of the largest longship in the Fleet. He wanted to know why they could no longer do this, and he thought he knew the answer.

Legends spoke of how the ironmen, the ancient men of House Levithan, had tamed leviathans.

They had taken their house name and derived it from the creature, yes, but perhaps there was more to the legend than that. Stories were told amongst the salt people of conquering ironmen in their giant ships, fighting enemy fleets. Two or three boats alone would face an entire navy. The enemy would pause, confused, and as they waited the ironmen would summon their beasts from the deep. Leviathans were bigger than the biggest boats, they could curl around one and crush it to splinters. They could break a mast with their jaws, they could slice men to ribbons. The ironmen never had to fight- but if they did fight, none could beat them in swordsmanship. The leviathans obeyed the ironmen because the leviathans knew that an ironman king was an even match for a leviathan.

The stories were numerous, and the descriptions of the leviathans were constant. There were legends from all around the world of these creatures and the black ships that ruled them.

Such stories had to have a truthful base. Surely the leviathans once had to be real.

And if they were real, these ancient creatures, where were they now? Perhaps they were still here- perhaps the ironmen had lost their control and the leviathans had left them, confining their former masters to the Iron Islands and their tiny ships. No longer could massive boats be carried on the backs of leviathans through the water and protected by the sea beasts.

But if Lord Rickard could find them…

perhaps Lord Rickard could discover how the ironmen of old had controlled the creatures, and call them back from the deep.

It was a far-fetched thought, but Lord Rickard was willing to pursue it.

King Rickard, King Rickard Levithan of the Iron Islands- no, of the Oceans. King of the Oceans, upon his Seastone Chair.

He smiled.

From the books he had unearthed so far, the leviathans had been controlled by the ironman who could sound the Horn of the Seas, which- by all illustrations- appeared to be a gigantic conch shell. Lord Rickard knew that if one hollowed out a conch shell and drilled a hole in it, then it was possible to sound one as a horn- but shells were uncommon, especially whole ones. He had not the slightest clue as to where the Horn of the Seas was, either.

The stories said that the Horn had been lost- not broken, lost. If something was lost, it could be found again. And should the Horn be lost forever, surely he could create a new one. He had the Iron Fleet at his command- he could send them to search for shells that looked to be large enough, and try calling with them. It was unlikely that it would yield any results, however.

All this he knew from legends. The books told him more about the Horn- how large it was, what it did, how beautiful it was. They also cautioned that any lesser man who wielded the Horn would die- only true Levithans could survive the power that the Horn release.

Lord Rickard trawled through the books that he could find for information on the location of the Horn. Surely it had been lost somewhere in the Islands. He had feared that the Horn had been lost at sea, drowned in the waves with a lost ship, but the few whispers that he could find in the books stated that it had been entombed with one of the kings, after he had been killed during a streak of bad luck. The ironmen had believed that the Horn was bringing them bad luck instead of leviathans, because they had abused the power that the Horn had given them and the leviathans had stopped answering.

The Horn had been out of use for long enough. It was time to find it and try again.

Lord Rickard pored over the books patiently, prying into the past to find where the Horn was entombed. He couldn't winkle a name out of the brittle pages- the best clue remaining stated that the last king had been sealed inside a tomb chiseled out of a sea cliff, where the water would swirl in beneath him to destroy his body and the pounding waves would wash away his image. The Horn had been left lying next to him, the tomb sealed. The only openings would be the water-tunnel, where the rising tide would come swirling in, and the air-tunnel, where the air would be pushed out as the water rose. Neither were large enough for the Horn to fall out of- by all rights, it should still be there, encased in stone and bones.

It could take a long time to find it. Lord Rickard would have to search the base of every sea cliff in the Iron Islands.

Fortunately, he had a fleet to do it for him. When he couldn't find a location, he closed the books and sat, deep in thought, before rising and striding back through the Towers to find the captain of the longship that had carried him here. He would leave on the morrow.

He would have the Horn of the Seas. He would have the leviathans.

He would have the Iron Islands, and he would have the world.


	12. 11, CHARLIE:

Side note! The Greywater Watch I am using will be VERY DIFFERENT than the one in Game of Thrones, probably, because the people are very different.

Thanks!

* * *

Charlie trotted through the marsh on the back of her favorite mare, not even searching for something, but waiting to be found. The sides of the saddle displayed banners with the symbol of House Lunedor, a black quill pen on a white disk on a deep burgundy field.

The Neck was a boggy mess, and Charlie had to be careful where she went. Fortunately the horse, Spring, was marsh-bred and intuitive, so she would balk when Charlie urged her towards a bad part of the ground, and Charlie would be quick to redirect.

The marsh-men would find her soon enough, she knew. They were probably watching her even now as she picked through the reeds and water.

Her suspicions were correct. A few moments later, a young girl emerged from the marsh, where she had been silently standing. The marshpeople were extraordinarily good at hiding themselves amongst the colors and patterns of the mud and plants of the Neck and this one was no different. The girl was wearing drab brown and gray, a shawl-like covering draped around her shoulders atop a short skirt and high boots. There was a tight binding about her torso and under her arms, wrapping over her shoulders in cross pattern.

"Hello," Charlie said pleasantly. The girl carried a peculiar two-pronged spear, which she held loosely by her side, one end resting on the ground. She said nothing. Charlie shifted uncomfortably on her mare and continued. "I have to speak to the lords at Greywater Watch."

The girl blinked slowly and nodded, then turned and briskly set off along a path through the reeds. Charlie spurred Spring into a walk and followed her, the horse picking her way along a barely visible stable path amongst the boggy pit traps that could ensnare a traveler forever. She had no idea where she was going.

Greywater Watch had no high stone halls, no soft castle beds, no battlements and barricades. Greywater Watch wasn't even strictly a castle- it was a camp, and it moved constantly. Those who attempted to invade the Neck had never succeeded in doing anything but bothering the marshmen, and disturbing their peace. The only reason the Wyrman family and the marshpeople had agreed to be bannermen to the Lunedor family was the Lunedors had promised to try and keep trouble out of the Neck unless they absolutely couldn't. It was a peaceful agreement.

Charlie followed the young girl through the marsh for what seemed like an hour, continuing endlessly past identical splotches of ground and reed patches until she was totally lost. She was intensely grateful for her guide.

All at once she found herself in the midst of a camp. She had passed a bush and suddenly there were beautifully constructed tentlike buildings everywhere.

Charlie didn't even have time to speak before the girl led her to a tent that looked slightly larger than most, and stood waiting at the entrance. Taking the hint, Charlie dismounted Spring and left the reins with the young girl as she ventured into the tent.

There were a few people inside, but most notable was the lady sitting on an ornately carved wooden chair, with rushes strewn about her. She had long dark hair and dark eyes, chocolate brown with flecks of silver.

"Lady Madison," Charlie said, and bowed her head.

"Lady Charlene," Madison Wyrman replied in an equally cool and cordial tone. "What brings you here?"

"We've had a message from Winterfell, about the usurper in the south," Charlie told her. "They're sending down a Celestian to keep watch on the Neck, but she'll need our help."

"Who is it?"

"The princess, Annael." Charlie had deduced this, as Annael was the only direct heir to the throne that was female. Sure, there were cousins, but she was a true princess, sister to the king.

Lady Madison shifted, thinking. She was beautiful, and kind, though she looked sometimes fearsome. Her claws lay to the side of her makeshift throne, and when she smiled, her teeth were sharpened- like many of her house, and many of her people.

Finally, she spoke. "What does the princess need of us?"

"To help her keep watch. We must watch by night- you, specifically. During the day the princess will be able to see through the eyes of her Bondmate and patrol far further than any of us could see." She took a breath. "We're to house her at Moat Cailin."

The lady of the marshes considered this, then nodded. "I will send delegates to the castle," she said after a moment. "I thank you for your swift information."

"I couldn't send a courier," Charlie apologized. "They would have gotten lost."

"As is the point," Lady Madison responded. "Otherwise, we wouldn't be very hidden, would we?"

Charlie smiled. Lady Madison did as well, which was slightly frightening, but Charlie made no comment. The Lady of the Marshes stood and walked out of the tent, snatching up her claws on the way. She dismissed the young girl holding Spring's reins and Charlie mounted her horse. "I'll accompany you back to the road," Madison stated.

Charlie nodded. She nudged Spring and they set off back through the small camp. Within seconds it seemed that they had left it behind, and the sound vanished. The paths back were as convoluted and confusing as the ones in had been, and Charlie was fairly sure that they weren't even the same paths.

When they reached the Kingsroad, Madison held back. "Here you are," she said. She had slipped the claws on while they walked. The claws were really just blades attached to light gauntlets. "Send word when the Celestian arrives."

"Of course." Charlie bowed her head. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

They stood there for a second more, then both of them mumbled and turned away, Charlie up the Kingsroad and Lady Madison back to the marsh.


	13. 12, KEVIN:

Eight bandits left their small camp to raid a passing party.

Three returned.

Kevin stared. The only men who had escaped were the huge, dim fellow they called Boulder, a swarthy youth called Doren, and a taller man with a dark brown beard. Kevin didn't know his name.

"Damn," hissed Doren, as soon as he arrived. Her kicked something into the remnants of the fire. "Those fuckin' bastards!"

"This is your fault," the man with the brown beard said quietly. "If you hadn't-"

"Shut up! Shut up!" Doren whirled around. "How the fuck was I s'posed to know it was _them?_"

"You got most of us killed," the bearded man replied. "They can't be beaten."

"Well-"

Doren didn't get much further, because the bearded man, who was leaning on his sword, stood up straight and lunged. Doren stumbled backwards, astonished and taken surprise.

"What the hell?!" he snapped, and pulled out a dirk. It flashed up and shone, blocking the bearded man's sword. It was only a few strokes until the dirk was thrown back and the sword ran itself through Doren's ribs.

The bearded man tossed Doren backwards and turned away as he bled on the ground.

Boulder lumbered into Kevin's line of sight. The big man stared at Doren for a few moments, then looked up at the bearded man.

The bearded man sheathed his sword without bothering to clean it off and glanced up. "Boulder," he acknowledged, then turned around and strode into the trees to the left of the fire. Kevin heard a collection of sounds, and then the bearded man appeared again, mounted on Nighthawk. "Bring the horses," he ordered Boulder, who grunted and disappeared, reappearing with two of the remaining horses tethered to a lead clutched in one meaty fist. The bearded man nodded, and Kevin watched helplessly as they took his horse and left.

He held his breath, hoping they would either leave a horse for him, or free him, or take him with them or something. Nothing of the sort occurred. Silence filtered through the forest, the only sounds being the buzzing of flies that were beginning to collect around Doren's body. The scent of blood wafted to Kevin's nostrils.

His hands were tied behind him, but he wasn't tied to anything. He glanced around, and caught a glimpse of steel on the ground- Doren's dirk, where it had fallen. He had no idea where his own sword was.

With difficulty, Kevin worked his way over the ground and reached the dagger. It was lying flat on the ground, so grabbed the handle in his teeth and stuck it point-first into the dirt, then knocked it slowly over until it was steadied on and in the ground. He used the edge to very slowly cut the ropes binding his hands, cutting himself as well in the process, twice on one hand and once on the other.

Once he was free, he picked up the dagger and cut the ropes binding his ankles together. Evidently the bandits had intended to leave him here to die. He had no currency, and his bag had been taken, but fortunately he was still wearing his cloak, and there might be a horse left for him.

He could also search the camp for valuable or useful items. This only occurred to him, after a few minutes of standing around. He edged around Doren's body, then slipped amongst the abandoned encampment, searching for anything that could be of use. He found his mail bag, but nothing else that was useful. He wouldn't touch Doren's body to search for anything.

Then he went and found that there were no horses. Whatever horses had been there had been released by Boulder. Evidently he thought it was easier to let them go than take them with.

Faint shouting echoed through the wood, and he glanced up, confused. A horse neighed, and silence resumed after a few seconds.

Kevin strained his ears. Nothing revealed itself, at least for a few minutes. As he waited, however, he became aware of the sound of hooves, coming back towards him. He swallowed nervously.

Nighthawk trotted into view, riderless. Evidently she had thrown the bearded man and fled.

"Nighthawk!" Kevin allowed a smile to spread across his face. His horse evidently preferred him over a stranger.

The horse trotted up to him. He stroked her neck.

She whickered softly, and he cast around. Where was his sword? Had the bearded man taken it? He might have. Kevin took the dirk, sliding it into his belt carefully. There was no sheath for it- well, there was, but he wasn't going to take it off Doren's body. Besides, it was soaked in blood at this point. His bag, however, was lying on the ground next to a tent some distance away. There was nothing in it, but Kevin picked it up and felt better having it again.

He mounted his horse and turned her towards the road, and came face-to-face with a man holding a bow. It was, apparently, the remaining bandit who hadn't made it back.

"…They left," Kevin said. He shrugged, trying to seem calm.

The bow-wielding bandit stared at him, glanced over at Doren's body, glanced back at Kevin, and stepped aside. Kevin rode past him and made for the road, galloping until there were trees between him and that bow.

Fortunately, he found the road. He turned and found a place where blood had soaked into the road, and there were freshly dug graves. Evidently this was what had become of the rest of the bandits who had been keeping him captive, since this was where he had been taken. He wondered who the 'they' was that had beaten them so badly.

No matter. He found the river crossing bridge and rode over, then made for Winterfell. He had to let them know that the message had been delivered.

The rest of the ride north was uneventful, thankfully… except at night. He was riding north, searching for somewhere to spend the night, when he heard rustling in the undergrowth. Fearing attack or a wild animal, he continued onwards, but it simply followed him, even at a gallop. It stopped when he did, and he heard a faint breathing sound.

"Hello?" He dared, one hand resting on the stolen dirk.

Nothing. He swallowed and turned Nighthawk's head up the Kingsroad. By the next day, whatever had been following him was gone.

Perhaps it was wolves, he thought. If it was wolves, it was clever wolves, and he would have to warn the surrounding villages. Clever wolves were a problem. Dumb ones would flee if one of their pack was feathered. Clever ones wouldn't let themselves be shot.

It hadn't growled or made wolflike noises. It probably wasn't wolves.

It probably wasn't anything.

He let the thought fall from his mind. His journey north ended when he saw the buildings and the gates of Winterfell awaiting him.


End file.
